Page 5 of Little Death
Did he...?
No. I shake my head, my hand pressing so hard over my mouth I know I'll have bruises in the shape of my fingertips if I keep it up.
The bored voice returns. “Damn rude of him to blackmail you at a charity gala. Americans.” He snorts, then comes another thud, and the body—Dufresne—jerks against the door. I shake uncontrollably. “He couldn't have waited until Monday, could he? Now I have to miss the rest of the fun to clean up this mess. I almost wish he were alive so I could kill him for the cheek.”
“You'll survive. Hide him somewhere. I'll block the back elevator from the waitstaff, and we'll take care of the body tomorrow. Get one of the boys if you need help. I have to get back down to the party before I'm missed.”
Of all the terrible scenarios I'd imagined could take place tonight, this had not been one of them.
I'd painted the worst picture of Aiden O'Connor since he bought my family's house. A ruthless, greedy billionaire who takes what he wants and doesn't give a damn about anything else. But all of my silly caricatures pale compared to reality.
Because Aiden O'Connor isn't only a cold-hearted, arrogant asshole.
He's a killer.
“You owe me for this,” the other voice says. “Shall I just add it to your tab?”
Whatever Aiden says in response is drowned out by the sound of grunting and scraping as the other man hefts the body up and heaves it out of the door.
I hold my breath until I hear the door click behind them, and then I give myself sixty seconds to straight-up fucking panic. I didn't really hear billionaire Aiden O'Connor kill someone in cold blood right next to me, did I? This doesn’t happen in real life.
Yet…
I know what I heard.
Once the sixty seconds are over, despite the ringing in my ears, despite how my fingertips have no sensation whatsoever and are shaking uncontrollably, I breathe deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. It's even more imperative than ever that I get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.
My phone buzzes again, jolting me to life, and I resolve to text Yasmine as soon as I'm safe. If I ever get out of this hellhole, that is.
Part of me wants to freeze, to stay in this closet forever, but my mom's phone propels me to crack open the door. The room is empty. There's no sign anyone else was here aside from a few drops on the floor that I ignore for the sake of my sanity.
With one last long exhalation, I cross the room to the door, one step closer to sweet freedom. Getting out of this hellhole can't happen any quicker. My trembling fingers twist the knob and pull it open. The scream that's been building in my chest for the past quarter hour rips out of my lungs when I find Aiden O'Connor waiting on the other side of the door, almost like he’s not surprised to find me here—in this room. It takes me momentarily off guard, my brows knitting together.
“I thought I heard something. I should have known it was a lost little girl wandering where she shouldn’t be,” he says, and I loosen for a moment. If he’d known my name, he would have called me out. He slaps a hand over my mouth before I can unleash another scream or call for help. “No, no. None of that. You're not going anywhere.”
He shoves me back into the room with his free hand, guiding my waist. I trip on my godforsaken towering heels and we both go crashing to the floor. His hand muffles my yelp of pain, and my body explodes into starbursts of agony. My elbows, my head, my ass.
Aiden's weight—200 plus pounds of pure lean muscle—crashes down on me a second later with a muffledumphfrom him, squeezing what little air remains in my lungs. Tears smart at the backs of my eyes as I struggle to show no weakness.
“Christ,” Aiden wheezes as he gingerly gets to his hands and knees, finally removing his hand from my face to squeeze at his crotch. It doesn't matter. There isn't enough air left in me to yell.
If I could speak, I'd tell him I'd do worse than crush his balls. Thankfully, I've retained enough of my common sense to keep my smart fucking mouth closed. I don't need to get in any more trouble than I already am.
“Fan-fecking-tastic,” he hisses between pants, his knuckles turning white as he grips his muscular thighs. “Did Cian send you here to render me infertile? Fuck!”
As I sputter and cough to draw breath back into my lungs, I glare at him, which only seems to irritate him further, his frown deepening. I fist my hands over my stomach because gouging his eyes out with my new French coffin acrylics will not do me any good. The oxygen deprivation must be making me go insane.
“Want to tell me what you're doing in here? I know for a fact this door was locked.”
No answer I give this man will appease him. There won’t be any arguing my way out of this debacle. Even if I could come up with the perfect explanation, I know that witnessing him execute a police officer means I'm as good as dead. I can only hope to keep him talking long enough to figure out a way to escape. The ice in my veins chills me from the inside out, and I shiver under his penetrating gaze.
“It wasn't locked when I found it. I was trying to find the bathroom,” I choke out, my voice croaky and hoarse.
“The bathroom,” he repeats drolly. “And you couldn't find it downstairs?”
“They were full, and it’s a big house. I got lost.”
“Lost.”
